Under The Yellow Sun
by MrsRoy
Summary: The Yellow Sun sustains life on Earth and bestows God-like powers and abilities upon Clark Kent. Unfortunately, at this stage in his life, Clark can only watch helplessly as his powers are manifested elsewhere. Chlark. Post Tempest.
1. Chapter 1

**For now this is just a one-shot, but I'd really like to continue on with it.**

**Angsty Chlark fluff of sorts.**

**I don't own them. I just share.**

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><p>He watches them from the shadows, only ever from the shadows. Though he frequently has the urge to swallow his pride and take a step into the warmth of the light that beckons, more often than not, he still prefers to stick with the darkness that consumes his soul.<p>

He watches with pride. There's a sense of satisfaction in surveying such a work, a silhouette so frighteningly perfect, so complete in its parts.

He can't help but smile.

His ears pluck up the sound of her laughter, as she squeals and tries her damnedest to remove herself from the situation. He's experiencing her spirit, and it never fails to find the love hidden deep within his aching heart.

The sunshine catches the small silver buckle that accentuates her dainty sandal, and it shimmers like the glint of light on broken glass before she moves again, effectively destroying the illusion.

He still remembers that night, just over two years ago.

_Spring Formal._

The end of freshman year, he'd finally been able to find the courage to ask her and she hadn't been the one to let him down. Standing in the barn with her that day that seems like a life time ago, it had been fate all along.

The dress and the flowers, the fuchsia fabric between his fingers. Her eyes and her smile. He'd known heaven that eve.

At least he'd thought that there was nothing that could truly surpass the feelings of elation that had stirred in his gut when he laid his eyes upon Chloe Sullivan.

The wind moves swiftly through the patch of thicket where he pretends to hide and the subtle motion draws his eye across the park where a pair of black ponytails sway as his daughter shakes her head in defiance at her mother.

Her teenage mother.

If she knows that he's there, she doesn't let on.

He'd abandoned her that night, left her for his 'girl next door' and the will of his conscience. Through the heart of the tempest, he'd weathered the storm, the thought of forever flowing through his head.

And when Lana had been rescued and the guilt had gnawed at him for leaving Chloe, he'd gone back to her, he'd fallen into her bed and he'd made her night real, he'd fulfilled every promise he'd ever made.

Her hair, like spun gold, had gleamed from the light of the lamp on her nightstand. Her breasts had glistened with moisture where his mouth had been, where his tongue had circled her tender nipples. And her body had blushed and she'd curled her toes when she'd offered herself, her most sacred tender.

He'd broken through her resistance, made her cry, her face had scrunched and the tears soaked her skin.

But still she'd offered herself, of and for herself.

She'd burned his flesh, her tight, hot channel gripping his shaft. Her fingers clawed at his back and she'd begged him not to stop, had to feel his release deep within.

Try as he might, he hadn't the strength to deny her. He'd loved her then as he loves her now.

And then his heat vision had given up his dirty little secret, and Chloe had startled and after he'd finally managed to calm her, she'd woken alone with a silent vow never to trust him again.

By the time his mother and Mister Sullivan had figured out that Chloe was pregnant, it was too late. Chloe had disappeared and his life had all but gone to shit.

He watches the small child toddle across the playground. Her tiny legs carry her with ease, her bright blue eyes wide as she spies a lone dove and scurries towards him.

He closes his eyes and inhales her scent. She's like peaches and cream, so sickly sweet that you can't help but ask for more.

His miracle in flesh. His sunshine.

His mother used to sing him that song. He hadn't realized until now, just how appropriate the words had been.

_You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy, when skies are gray. You'll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away._

She nourishes his essence and feeds his soul, life so pure that nothing can destroy him.

Oh, how Jor-El had been wrong.

Compared to his daughter, he derives nothing from the yellow sun.

_Helicia_. He wonders if Chloe knows the meaning.

He suspects she does.

And then she's standing at his feet, her tiny neck craning to see the man who stands before her. She cocks her head to the side as if considering something and then she smiles.

Clark can't help himself. He takes up a knee so that he's down at her height, even though he still lumbers over her.

"Hello," He smiles back at her, at this perfect girl.

She stares back at him, almost as if she knows, like the answer is obvious, and he swears that she looks every bit her mother despite the fact that she wears his features.

"You came," She speaks clearly, her tongue curling around the syllables, her fingers tugging at the hem of her denim pinafore.

Clark nods.

"But you can't tell your mommy, this has to be our secret, okay. Do you think you can do that for me?"

It's Lisha's turn to nod emphatically.

"I lo … I, ah … I suppose I should go now."

Again the child smiles up at him, even from here, she bears no sign of fear, no sign of helplessness.

He wouldn't expect less from Chloe's daughter.

"I love you too, Daddy."

Before he has a chance to react, she's back in her mother's arms, nestled safely against the warmth of her chest, her ear pressed over the skin of her heart, and she's smiling.

He can sense Chloe's lips move, her breath tickles her lower lip as the words slip past her mouth and he hears a faint – 'Thank you, Clark'.

Helicia blinks and her father is gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**I don't own them. I just share.**

**Forgive me, but I really have to write unrequited Lois. **

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><p>"She looks just like me, Mom. Just like me," Clark tells his mother and swallows thickly, vulnerable, pain bristling, his heart so full of emotion.<p>

"Well," Martha says, looking up from the broad cotton t-shirt that she's folding as she listens. "We don't really know what to expect with your super powers, Honey. I can only assume that your daughter has inherited her fair share from you."

"She knows who I am, Mom. Lisha knows that I'm her father."

"Lisha?" This seems to pique Martha's interest. "Where did that come from?"

"Chloe always calls her Lisha, but that's not the point. Didn't you hear what I said? She knows who I am. My daughter, the one I've never met."

Martha maneuvers the iron along the left leg of the worn through pair of old blue jeans that rest against the surface of the ironing board and sighs.

"Maybe it's time for you to stop hiding, Clark. You've been there from the beginning. Why don't you just tell Chloe the truth and ask her to let you be a father to that little girl who needs you?"

"After everything I've done to her? I don't think Chloe would be willing to hear me out."

Martha places the iron upon the board and steps back from her chore to take a moment to address her son properly.

"Lois told me about the kiss."

"She would." Clark rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

"Did it help?" His mother asks, holding her breath as she waits patiently for his answer.

"I had to know if what I feel for Chloe is genuine, that those feelings didn't change."

"Lois deserves better than that from you, Clark."

Clark balls his fists and sets his jaw and he tries so desperately to shake the vein of lonely frustration that succeeds in making him feel guilty, that gives voice to his helplessness.

"Lois isn't Chloe."

"This isn't how your father and I raised you, Clark. We gave you some of the best years of your life, but you're an adult now and your problems are your own. We can't do this for you, even though I wish we could, Sweetheart."

Clark's dark eyes descend upon his mother and in that moment all of the ambiguity is seemingly clear. Without his smooth talking words and the sound of his voice, Clark seems so alien. The gesture serves as a warning. This is one cross he shall bear.

"Chloe was my first, and I hope that she'll be my last. Lois is not really important, she's just … Lois."

"And all I'm saying is make sure that Lois knows that. Be honest with her."

"Mom. Okay. I will," Clark relents. "I think I'll take a look at the loose plumbing in the kitchen. I mean, if you still want me to?" Clark shrugs, still looking at his mother.

A familiar presence at the door ruptures the silence that has settled between the two and Martha flinches as her husband's voice carries and she's drawn from the pleasure of her mind.

"Everything alright in here?"

Martha turns to Jonathan and smiles warmly.

"Clark was just about to check the plumbing beneath the kitchen sink. Why don't you help him?"

"I can do that. Come on, Clark."

Jonathan knows that tone; he's recognized the contemplation that sparkles in Martha's eyes when she's thinking about their son. He still has the ability to read her, even after years together. The sharpness, the clarity, the emotion. The way that she affects his heart.

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><p>Clark eases himself into the cavity of the kitchen cabinet and tugs gently at the s-bend pipe that greets his steely poker face. His mothers might think she's subtle, but after fifteen years under her roof, Clark believes that he knows better.<p>

Jonathan crouches at his right hand side like the ever dutiful father he's always had the knack for being. He fingers the weight of a wrench in one hand; the other clutches the cumbersome flashlight. Even though Clark's extrasensory vision is more than adequate, it never hurts to be prepared.

"Aren't you going to ask me what happened?" Clark wonders aloud, surprising his father with such a bold statement.

"I figured you'd say something when you were good and ready."

"She looks like me you know," Comes Clark's voice from the depths of the plumber's domain beneath the kitchen sink. "Helicia, my daughter. She looks just like me, Dad."

"Being a father is the most amazing feeling in the world, Clark. When your mother and I realized that you were going to be a part of our lives, I was so happy. A son, even if you didn't have my blood, or your mother's eyes. We knew it in our hearts, Clark. You were our son then just as much as you are today."

Clark sighs, placing the two halves of the freshly greased pipe back together and securing it in its rightful place. He reaches for the dirty rag beside him and wipes his hands, pushing himself out of the crevice and smiling as the light from the sun greets him through the pane of tempered glass in the kitchen window.

"I made a mistake, Dad. I made such a bad mistake with Chloe."

"Clark?"

"I mean, I should have been honest with her, I should have taken care of her," He stutters, closing his eyes to relinquish the heartache. "I should never have let her go that morning."

Jonathan hopes his next sentence will serve him well as he offers the Lord a silent prayer of guidance.

"Why don't you go to New York? Clark, they're your family. Home is always where the heart is."

Clark pushes himself into a sitting position and smooths his hands along the outside leg of his old blue jeans and shakes his head vehemently.

"Dad, I can't leave you and Mom. Besides, I can see Lisha whenever I want to. You know, back and forth in the same day."

"And what about Chloe?"

Chloe Sullivan, Jonathan thinks, Clark's high school sweetheart, his best friend. When they were children, he had actually believed that the two belonged together. Now he wonders if he hadn't just yearned for the sake of his beloved son.

Together with his wife, they'd sheltered Clark, hibernating for the sake of the child who was different from the rest, fearless in the face of adversity.

Chloe had been the first to conquer that battlefield. She dared to defy the impossible and embrace the forbidden.

They'd always been two peas in a pod.

"I've think about it a lot, about being with Chloe and raising our daughter. But you know Chlo, when she sets her mind to something, there's no stopping her. I'd just be cramping her style."

Jonathan chuckles and the laughter rumbles in his chest as he thinks about the little blond streak of sass.

"She certainly had you wrapped around her little finger, Son."

This time Clark chuckles to himself. _That's not the only thing I was wrapped around._

"I can hear my daughter when she laughs; I can feel her heartbeat, like she's connected to me. She's happy, Dad. Right now, that's all I need."

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><p>Martha Kent tucks her copper locks neatly behind her ear and nestles herself closer to her husband, her head resting beneath his chin.<p>

"Jonathan, we have to help Clark. Our Granddaughter, she's going to be different, like Clark. She's going to need him. He's the only one who knows what it's like." Martha pushes herself up onto one elbow and leans over her husband, her eyes holding back the tears that she refuses to part with.

"I know that Chloe means well, but that little girl is Clark's responsibility. He deserves to be a part of her life, Jonathan."

Jonathan shakes his head, taking her hand in his, his skims the top of her knuckles as he tries in vain to soothe his wife.

"Honey, I wish there was something we could do, but you know what Chloe said. She doesn't trust us, she doesn't trust Clark. She thinks he's some kind of monster."

"There's my family. I still have connections."

"No. Absolutely not," He denies the offer. "Not your father's money. We'll think of something."

Martha breaks from her husband's embrace and shuffling to the edge of the bed she stands, reaching for her robe on the corner of the turned oak bed frame. Knotting the belt around her waist she throws up her hands in frustration.

"I won't be a part of this anymore. I refuse to lie to our son, Jonathan."

"It was one time, Martha. One time that Chloe brought her daughter to meet us. She was three days old. Do you want to ruin any chance Clark might ever have of getting to know his daughter? We promised Chloe."

Martha pulls the worn photo from the bottom of her jewelry box and her fingers graze the glossy page as the tiny girl wrapped up in buttercup icing looks back at her with big, blue eyes.

The motion is so familiar, her bed time ritual, her strength amidst the weakest times. With Helicia, she'd been smitten. So much so, that she'd been willing to keep the truth from her own son.

"He deserves a chance, Jonathan. We all do," She says, her thumb catching the tear that escapes from her clenched lid.

"Nothing in this life comes easily, you know that. But we'll figure this out, I'll talk to Gabe Sullivan again, there has to be something more he can tell us."

"I'd feel better."

Jonathan tries his best to smile, though his lip trembles and his eyes quite plainly convey his emotion, he speaks.

"We'll do everything we can to make this right, Martha. I promise."

He hopes that his honesty will be enough to convince his wife. If there's one thing they've always done best, better than the sanctity of marriage, it's protecting Clark.


	3. Chapter 3

**I don't own them. I just share.**

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><p>The fine china bowl slips from Clark's fingers and his ears burn with rage, burn like a breath that tears from the depths of his lungs and he clutches the stainless steel sink as his heart crumbles beneath the weight of deceit.<p>

The cheap laminate bench top buckles, but Clark does not relinquish his grip.

How could they lie to him? All these years, his daughter, and they had known of Chloe's intentions.

He tries to breathe, tries to remind himself that Helicia is safe, that she's loved, that she's okay. His body aches, he can hear her without listening, he knows her laugh, but it only seems to cause him pain.

Clark needs answers.

A lone silver spoon rests upon the server, reminding Clark of the mess that sits at his feet. He squats into a crouching position, retrieving the porcelain slivers as if they pose no consequence. His mind is elsewhere as he remembers the day that his heart had contained the trimmings of joy.

_Martha Kent entered the kitchen silently with her bittersweet news. She removed her lightweight cardigan and draped it over the hook on the back of the kitchen door. Solemnly, Clark watched as she took the kettle over to the sink, releasing the pressure from the cold water tap; she allowed the sound of the water to drown out her sighs._

_Gabe Sullivan brought up the rear. He looked defeated. Clark swallowed thickly, he had a bad feeling. Gabe looked up at the young man and shook his head before taking a seat at the Kent family table. He folded his hands and held his head, his foundations completely shattered. _

"_Mom?" Clark asked, leaning carefully against the doorframe._

"_She's gone, Sweetheart," She answered honestly, placing the kettle upon the hob to boil._

_Clark seemed confused by her statement and took some time to comprehend. _

"_What do you mean? Where has Chloe gone?"_

_Martha took a deep breath and swallowed her guilt. Pity would do Clark no good, she surmised._

"_Sweetheart, we found a note in Chloe's room. She took a bus out of the state, she said that she had to get as far away as she possibly could," Martha explained; choosing her words carefully, fear of flight foremost in her mind._

"_By the time we made it to the bus terminal," Martha continued, "She was gone."_

_Clark stood perfectly still, his aura gleamed and the air around him crackled, the energy within his system suddenly crisp and new, like dancing flames._

_Clark refused to accept his mother's answer._

"_Mom, just tell me where Chloe is. I'll go and get her."_

"_Clark, Honey," Martha spoke as she approached her son. "How close are you and Chloe? I know that the two of you spent a lot of time together …"_

"_She's my best friend," Clark said, "Why would you even need to ask me that?"_

"_Because of this," Gabe Sullivan pushed back his chair and stood to his full height, pulling the delicate item from his back pocket and thrusting it into Clarks face._

_Clark said nothing._

"_My Chloe is not a hussy, she's not the type of girl to sleep around, which means that if I assume correctly, and given the look on your face, I have," He paused for a breath. "My daughter is carrying your child, isn't she, Clark?"_

_Clark had thought it impossible. Genetics didn't work that way. Then again, he supposed, what did he really know of his heritage? Anything was possible, given half a chance._

_Clark took one tentative step back, his eyes wide, his mouth agape. Again, the left foot joined the right and before his mother could open her mouth to protest, the two adults were met with a gust and Clark had disappeared from sight._

_Martha apologized on behalf of her son and Gabe waved her off by way of acceptance._

"_Let the boy go, he's likely just as scared as we are. And given what you've explained to me, pregnancy is probably the last thing on his mind. I think the most important thing now is that we find Chloe."_

"Clark, Clark?"

The words register in Clark's mind, but he's no longer reliving the past, he's back in the present, and his father is standing firmly by his side, his mother's hand is wrapped around his wrist as she tries to snap him out of his reverie.

"Clark? What happened? We heard the smash from upstairs, Sweetheart."

"Mom," Clark holds the broken bowl up in his hands, mimicking the actions of Gabe Sullivan that fateful day. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean …"

"It's okay, Son." Jonathan places his hand on Clark's shoulder. "What were you thinking about?"

Clark scratches his jaw and looks up at his father. He shrugs his shoulders.

"The day that Mom and Mister Sullivan told me that Chloe was pregnant. When I saw that test, when I knew for sure that Chloe was pregnant, I was so scared. Wait," Clark steps back from his parents. "You've met her," He points to his father. "You and Mom have both met my daughter. How could you lie to me?"

"We couldn't betray her trust. She threatened to keep Helicia away from you; I couldn't bare that for you, Clark."

"You didn't act surprised when I told you that she looks like me. You knew all along, didn't you?"

Martha simply nods and looks towards her husband, his eyes are cast down as he too feels the gnawing guilt.

"Your mother wanted to tell you," He says gently. "If you want to blame somebody, blame me, Clark. This is not your mother's doing."

"I'm going to talk to Mister Sullivan," Clark says suddenly. "I have to do this, Dad. Don't try to stop me."

Jonathan raises his hand, his palm upheld, a gesture of calm, or resistance.

"That's not a good idea, Son."

Clark shakes his head in defiance.

"No, you don't understand. This is my daughter, my family, the only other living daughter of Krypton. She needs me, she deserves to know who I am, where I am."

Clark inhales deeply and then stands to his full height. His daughter's wails of laughter echo in his ears and he knows that this is the right choice.

"I have nothing to lose, Dad."

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><p>Clark's heavy leather boots scrape the surface of the timber porch upon which he's pacing in front of Gabe Sullivan's front door. Weeds and their runners furnish the steps and the front yard looks unkempt, unsightly, as if Chloe's father had given up the very same day that his daughter left town.<p>

Clark's eyes close, his lids scrunched tightly as he struggles with the knowledge that this is his fault, that somehow, he could have done better.

He pushes his hands into the jeans of his pockets, fiddling with the loose change and keys that line the scratchy fabric.

Before he can gather the courage to knock, the door swings forth and Gabe Sullivan ushers the Kent boy inside.

"You're going to wear a hole in the timber if you keep that up," The man tells Clark.

"I … Ah," Clark runs a hand through his thick head of hair, smiling as he remembers the curls that were draped across his daughters face. Dark and unruly, much like his own.

"Your father called, told me to expect you."

Clark nods, pitifully thankful for his father's timely interference.

"I think you'd better come in."

Gabe steps back from the entrance and ushers Clark across the threshold, into the presence of the very essence of Chloe Sullivan. Like a great upheaval, Clark's emotions hover like the darkest night, the eternal hourglass of power.

Clark lowers himself into the ornate French settee by the far wall, his bulky frame stifled, just like his deepest impulses. He shifts himself, trying to settle into a comfortable position, but it's like his skin is crawling, like Chloe is inside of him, like a saboteur trying to infiltrate his suit of armor.

"So," Gabe's voices carries across the room between the two. "You want to know about my Granddaughter?" He asks Clark, his voice stoic, his tone, surprisingly sympathetic.

"Yes," Clark answers, his eyes engaging the other man as he squares his shoulders, ready to beg for Chloe's father's help.

"I'd like to be able to see my daughter, Sir."

Gabe nods, caught up in his thoughts, the act of betrayal so foreign to him. He likes to think that Chloe is proud of the man he is, that he's done a good job as her father.

That's something that he can offer Clark, the chance to experience the rewards that present when involved in the process of raising a child.

"I think I can help you, Son. I owe you that much, Clark, one father to another."

"Thank you. I don't know what to say."

Gabe takes a steady breath and silently asks for Chloe's forgiveness.

"There's an album in the draw over there," He points over his shoulder at the side table draw. "I keep it there in case of emergency. It's should have everything you'll need."

Clark curls his hands into fists and pushes himself out of the chair. His mouth is dry and he can't fight the smile that suddenly lights his face as he makes his way to the other side of the room. His hands shake as he grips the broad knob and greets the pale pink chronicle with merriment.

Clark cradles the album, his strength waning as he yields to his weakness.

"To be honest," Gabe continues, his eyes glancing in Clark's direction as he watches the young boy, sensing his awkwardness. "I don't really know much more than you do, Clark. Last I heard, Chloe had a part time position with the Times. She likes to be hands on with Heli."

"Is she …" Clark wants to ask the question that gnaws at his insides, the secret unrest that that echoes in the agony of his mind. "Is she like me?"

"She's an extraordinary girl, Our Helicia. Chloe won't admit it, but I think she's more like you every day."

Clark shakes his head sadly, "I can't blame Chloe for that. I wanted to tell her, I did. She's my best friend, she's …" He swallows his words as he realizes what he's about to tell Chloe's father. He tilts his face to look at Gabe, offering a shallow apology.

"No need to be so modest, Clark," Gabe chuckles beneath his breath. "I can't deny the fact that Helicia is your daughter."

"I love your daughter. I love Chloe and our daughter."

"I believe you, Clark."

A calm silence settles between the two and Gabe appreciates the quiet as he contemplates his regrets and prepares to pick up the pieces.

"Take the album with you; I'm sure you don't want me looking over your shoulder."

Clark smiles, his eyes glistening with tears yet to be shed. He'll save those for his own quiet moment, lost in his thoughts as his fingers graze the lines and plains of his baby girl's precious features. When his heart is full of joy and his own past, his own failures are the furthest things from his restless musings.

"I hear her sometimes," Clark admits, daring to reveal his hand. "When nothing else seems to touch the sides, I concentrate on Lisha's voice. It's funny; I never thought I would be a father."

"None of us were prepared, Clark," Gabe says quietly, honestly. "Just do your best. Get to know your baby."

* * *

><p>Clark props himself up against the length of his bed head and pushes his pillows aside, making room for Helicia's baby album to rest upon the control of his broad knee. He toys with the corner of the front cover, his fingers tracing the line of the square as he asks himself if he's really ready for this, if he can deny himself the satisfaction.<p>

His thumb and forefinger tremble as he pulls the scalloped corner away from the bulk of the pages.

A tiny child peers up from the page. Her hair is dark and glossy; it's so shiny it seems as if she's eternally sun kissed. Her eyes are wide and one foot kicked free of her sleeper, pale toes, all five are perfect. There's a creamy yellow blanket, woven with thick, fleecy fabric and it's draped peacefully over his daughter's middle.

Chloe would never allow her daughter to be wrapped up in the semantics of gender specific colors.

To the right of the child, Chloe's sits proudly. She looks tired, her eyes are red and puffy, and dark shades are already forming. Clark wonders, idly, how much sleep Chloe has had since that moment. In his eyes, she looks beautiful as she strokes their daughter's chubby cheek. Her hair is pulled back off her face and Clark suddenly realizes how much he took her for granted. There's sadness in her eyes that he seems to emulate, like you've lost a part of yourself and you don't know how to get it back.

At the bottom of the page, Clark scans the birth statistics. Weight, length, time of birth. He clutches his chest, his lungs seizing as he reminds himself to breath. He missed her birth and he can't go back, there is no re-do. What he wouldn't give to have ushered his daughter into this world.

Absently, Clark wonders about her resistance to green Kryptonite. Should she ever come into contact with the substance, would Chloe know what to do? The pain and the weakness. Clark cringes knowing that his daughter could be susceptible to the very same vulnerability.

Clark sighs. He loves his daughter and he wants to be a part of her life. He wants to protect her, her virtue, her reputation. He will take her where the sun sets low in the dawn of the eve; he will be her guiding hand.

He shuts the album and places it neatly upon his nightstand as he flicks the lamp and the room is dim.

Tomorrow is another day, another chance for Clark to make his peace and to bask in his future.


End file.
